


It Hurts (But I’m Not About To Give You Up)

by ironiccowboykink



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Braces, Fire, Fluff, Homophobic Language, Irondad, I’m trying to string this together as a Loose Plot, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Possession, Prompts from my tumblr, The Bug Boys, This is mostly interwebs, burns (minor), fatphobic language, flash is the worst naturally, kissy, neck kissy, remembering dying, so much angst?, theres a lot of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-23 23:04:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17692829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironiccowboykink/pseuds/ironiccowboykink
Summary: A collection of prompts in my tumblr put into somewhat of an order.





	1. Chapter 1

In Peter’s defense, it was his first time having a boyfriend. It wasn’t his first time having a Ned, because he’d known him for like 9 years at that point, but still. His Peter Parker Defense Levels skyrocketed once Ned stopped holding LEGO pieces and then started holding his hand.

It was his first real offense, and Principal Morita suspected it was only inevitable until Peter snapped some day (it amazed him how benevolent and what a complete and utter doormat the kid could be), so he suspended Peter for two weeks just so no bloodhounds in administration would start sniffing around.

“Ned will give you all your homework, I’m sure,” was what he said in lieu of a proper dismissal. “See you in two weeks, Parker.”

May was angry, obviously. And proud. She was stuck between smacking him in the back of his head and pulling him close and celebrating because he finally stuck Flash’s nose to the pavement. And rubbed his face in a little. Maybe kicked him here and there. Dented a locker. Whatever, who cares! Let’s celebrate her baby’s newfound courage with a definitely not celebratory dinner, haha what? Her? Happy? Pfft… no way. Now, Peter, would you be so kind as to grab her wallet…?

Ned was delighted. And maybe a little too excited. He jumped Peter the first chance he got with a wet kiss, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend and twirling him around the room. “Dude, that was amazing!” He shouted directly in Peter’s ear, who cringed.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I do feel a little guilty though. I shouldn’t use my powers like that.”

Ned gave him a flat look and deadpanned in an even flatter tone, “He tried to pull my pants down and called my Tubby McFaggot. I think he deserved a broken nose.”

“And fractured cheekbone,” Peter squeaked, melting into his boyfriend’s warm embrace. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

“Dude. I’m always right.” Together, they sank onto Peter’s bed (he was, unfortunately, grounded, and were relying entirely on Peter’s spidey sense to prevent Aunt May from barging in.), Ned pressing gentle kisses to Peter’s face as not to overwhelm him. “Love you, bro. Today was epic.”

“Love you too, man,” Peter whispered back, face burning red.  
“Can you beat up more people for me?” Ned had moved to the little spot beneath his chin that always made him melt, hands kneading Peter’s waist. It’s been a long day for his boyfriend, and Ned can’t imagine he isn’t stressed out after laying into poor Flash like that. “I’ve totally got like, a long ass list you should look at.”

Peter groaned, but didn’t pull away. “Dude, you can’t just try to manipulate me to beat up people with kisses! Tempting offer, but the answer is totally no.”

“That’s a shame.” Ned blew on the shell of his ear, giggling. “It would’ve been totally cool to se a few more people with a black eye, unknown?”

He gave Ned an accusing look. “You’ve got a fighting fetish, don’t you Ned?” His voice was too flat to make it a question. 

“I’m not mad, just disappointed.”

“What are you, my mom?” Ned snorted, then shrugged. 

“Maybe I do. But listen, if you eliminate my— our— enemies with your sick spidey powers… woah man, we’d be top dog.”

“Absolutely not.” Peter craned his neck more to the right. Ned moves his lips accordingly. Peter sighed, relaxed. Hell Yeah, nonverbal communication. “Stop asking, dingus. Answer’s no.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hear me out ok.. peter, but with braces. thank you that is all

“Are yew shhore that they look cool?” Peter asked around a mouthful of his own fingers. “I look like I hawve train tracksh on my teeth.”

Ned nodded, perhaps excessively. “No way man, they totally look cool. And they’re in your colors, red and blue!”

His friend shrugged. “Spidey powers don’t give you straight teeth bro.”

“They should,” he grumbled, looking at braces again. “what are people gonna say when they see Spiderman with braces?”

“Ideally dude, nobody’s going to see your face at all. And they’ll probably think you’re cool bro! You’re just overthinking it.”

He wasn’t satisfied with that, but it was better than nothing. “Mr. Stark’s gonna tease me forever.”

“You gotta do what you gotta do, man. Straight teeth are a rite of passage.”

Peter turned to him incredulously. “A rite to _what?”_

“Coolsville.” Ned smiled. Peter rolled his eyes but smiled too, muttering “It better be.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Venom possession, anger, irondad fighting, 3k word fic, they/he pronouns for Venom, ooc for venom, written pre Venom the Movie and based entirely on my fleeting memory of the tv shows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was written in two parts and with a big gap between the two, so the end of the first one and the start of the second don’t match up.

Peter was a good kid. He would say so, anyway. He tries his best at everything, but it’s hard to manage a double life when you’re a poor orphan kid from Queens who also is _Spiderman._

Yeah, being Spiderman is cool and all (who is he kidding? It’s _awesome—_ ), but it’s also tiring. He’s a growing boy and also part spider. That apparently requires an amount of food he and Aunt May just can’t afford. (Peter’s not going to ask for it. May deserves nice things, not a hungry superhero.)

So surely he can excuse himself this once, gorging himself on food in an awestruck Tony’s kitchen. Some of the stuff is stale, admittedly. Leftover Chinese (beef teriyaki, blech. His stomach says eat more or die, though, so he keeps shoveling it in.), newly made pasta (it tastes chewy and overcooked), some wrap(?) that smells of spices. Whatever, there’s chicken, there’s vegetables, Mr. Stark says it’s shawarma. (He ignores Tony’s mildly displeased (impressed, perhaps?) face as he bites into it without warning. Peter is _really_ hungry.)

“Aunt May feedin’ you alright at home, spider monkey?” Mr. Stark leans against the raided fridge, considerably amused. “‘Cause you just ate me out of house and home.”

Peter should feel sheepish. He does, he thinks, if the sudden flushing of his face is any indication— but the box of his favorite cereal, unopened and oh so delicious, calls to him a lot more than his blush. He’s reaching for it before he’s even finished his shawarma, only to recoil when Tony slaps his hand away. 

“Alright, alright, you bottomless pit. That’s enough. There is a such thing as too much food, you know.” Mr. Stark nudges his half eaten shawarma towards him expectantly. “Are you always like this?”

Peter shrugged. Now that he’s not feeling like his stomach is actively trying to digest him (maybe it was.), half truths feel like an appropriate response to the inevitable line of questioning. 

Mouthful of food, mouthful of food, basic stalling tactic working wonderfully…

Except he’s out of food. Yikes. That was... incredibly fast, and wow those Honey Combs are looking really good right about now. Like, really good. 

Tony quirks an eyebrow.

“Am I saying this out loud?”

“Word for word, kiddo. Sure you’re alright?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Stark.” Peter flashes him a smile.

——  
Peter was understandably a little tired after a meteor crashed in downtown New York.

Like, you’d think a police barricade and one or two significantly powerful figures (well, just him and FRIDAY operating one of Tony’s spare suits) telling people to stay back would be enough to, you know, convince people to stay back?!?

Well… Peter appreciates their concern. It _is_ a good sized meteor and he _did_ fall into the crater at some point. Which was embarrassing, but fine! Since he practically radiates, uh, radiation every day, it didn’t exactly mutate him into anything he didn’t already mutate into. (Radiation resistant DNA. Rad.)

In any case, he came back home and immediately conked out on the couch. “A well deserved nap,” he managed to mumble through the thick of sleep. His arm tickled as if there was a bug on it, but he was really, _really_ tired. And the bug wasn’t hurting him anyway, so…

Peter drifted off, dreaming of suffocating blackness and meteors and an infinite fall into a bottomless crater.  
——  
Peter awoke with a start, jolting off the couch. His Spidey senses were going _nuts,_ but they were weird and fuzzy and really distant, but no matter how hard he looked he couldn’t find anything wrong. The room looked normal, he looked normal, except for the black clambering steadily up his arm—

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!” Peter shouted, trying to throw his arm as far away from himself as possible before remembering that that was impossible and instead shaking it vigorously. “Mr. Stark?!”

Okay, don’t panic, don’t panic. This is fine. Peter is _fine!_ It’s just some black thing eating his entire arm _dear God it’s eating his arm._ He calls out louder for Mr. Stark, watching the thing recoil at the volume of his voice before resuming its journey. “Uh,” he says, about twenty different questions on the tip of his tongue. He suspects the thing won’t answer him, but it won’t hurt to ask. Hopefully.

“What… _are_ you?” Peter asks, three different types of hesitant and with a heart attempting to burst out of his chest. It didn’t hurt or anything, it was just _alarming,_ especially since it seemed to be alive and just not explaining itself.

The thing was nearly up to his shoulder how, eating across the wide expanse of his chest. Peter was starting to panic a little. “O—okay uh, you’re not a talker, got it. Can you do a little signal or something? Wiggle for yes, keep ignoring me for no?”

It kept on moving. “Guess that’s a no, then.” Anxiety poked spikes through his skin— except for the arm the little thingy was on, because that was completely numb. yikes.— and yet Peter couldn’t find the nerve or will to pry it off just yet. He wanted to, but… There was something about it that made him feel like it would be okay doing whatever it is it wanted to do, whatever that may be. Mostly, though, it feels like slime.

“Um, can you— can you understand me?”

Nothing, still, just inching along with fervor.

“Okay, uhhh. Well. I’m going to pry you off now? Maybe? Uh, I don’t really want to, but you’re not answering me, so, uh, unless you wanna start telling me who you are and what you want and all that except I don’t really think you can talk because you don’t seem to have a mouth so I’m just going to—“ Peter eased his hand over the the edge of the blackness, trying to dig his nails under where it tapered off. 

He managed to lift some of the edges up, only to scream when it whipped itself around his wrist. Peter yanked his free arm back, but the goo held strong, enveloping over his body much faster than before. Where it took ten minutes to crawl up to his shoulder, it spread across his chest and right arm in only seconds. He kept trying to rip it off, rip it off, rip it _off,_ but whatever he removed the goo replaced. 

It crawled up his body like veins, spidering out into a fishnet. It felt as if he was flipping over dozens of cards; simultaneous and yet constrained to the snails pace of time. Alarm burned him from the inside out, flared a warning deep inside his belly that he couldn’t act on nor ignore. 

Peter dropped to his knees, tears welling in his eyes as struggled. “Mr. Stark!” He screamed, panting heavily. He would be hard pressed to deny his fear, the absolute panic surging through his body as his mouth was masked over by unmovable blackness. It’s choking him, he’s choking— oh, God, it’s like he never left the building. It’s choking him like the dust and the rubble and—

Peter squeezes his eyes shut as the blackness envelopes all of his face. He would rather he steal his own sight than whatever is trying to kill him. One last stand.

He’s sure there’s nothing left of him, just inky, inky blackness. An endless expanse. A suffocating night.

And then he hears a little sigh in his head. 

_**My name is Venom,**_ it says. Its voice is guttural and deep, like it consists of a thousand ripped vocal chords.

Peter doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know if he can.

_**You can speak.**_ Venom sounds amused.

The slimy feeling across his skin _is_ gone, Peter notes. He flexes his fingers and they move just fine. Wiggles his toes. Slowly but surely flutters open one eye. 

There’s… nothing. Nothing creepy-crawling up his skin. It’s all his skin and his skin alone. Peter has never been so glad to see it.

Adrenaline still thrums underneath his skin. “I— I’m Peter,” he whispers. He feels entirely too small for this room. “Peter Parker. Are you… part of me now?”

_**Peter,**_ Venom says appreciatively. **_Yes I am._**  
——  
Peter learns a few things that day.

Having Venon is _great,_ for one, even if their initial meeting was a little terrifying.

Flash tried to kick his ass at school the next day. He didn’t even think about it before he had turned the tables, yanking Flash up by the shirt and pinning him to the lockers. “You’re going to stop messing with me. Got it?” He hissed, feeling absolute _euphoria_ course through his veins. He liked the look on Flash’s face. Wide eyed and _scared._

_**No one will ever bully you again,**_ Venom had promised, though in not so many words. Actions seem to work better for them.

Even his friends had remarked on his change.

“Peter!” Ned started, the cheery lilt to his voice dying off into a more hesitant, concerned, “You seem different today.”

He nodded, a wide smile on his face. “I’ve got the ultimate confidence booster.” Even the shitty school lunches tasted better under Venom’s influence.

“Yeah, I bet,” MJ snorted, and Peter scowled at her.

“What? You like it better when I was weak and a doormat? When I let people walk all over me?” Suddenly Peter felt very angry, but Venom whispered in the wide expanse of his head to let them handle this and that if he just listened to them it would be okay.

Peter surrendered immediately. He trusted Venom. He wouldn’t do anything too rash. He felt emboldened, not reckless. Venom would be good. He was always good.

He nearly missed the wide eyed look shared between his friends, the low “...right.” from MJ. Ned merely mumbled something about finally snapping but kept pressing his fork in his food in a blatant attempt to look hungry. It wasn’t working.

Secondly, Tony didn’t like his new addition.

Peter didn’t tell him initially. It felt wrong to keep a secret from Mr. Stark, but wronger still to give Venom’s existence away. Like he was betraying them. Or himself. Or them as a whole. Either way, his lips remained zipped.

“You’ve been acting different lately, Webling,” Tony had remarked, face grave angles and deep shadows. His tone was light, but the tensed shoulders gave him away, among his _other_ tells. His right hand he kept steadily gripping some irrelevant tool, the other reaching for a sip of the coffee Tony had complained so dramatically about when he’d walked in.

“I guess I got over myself.” Peter shrugged casually, feeling anything but. He felt energized. He felt dialed up to nine. Ten. _Eleven._

After he became Spider-Man, he always struggled with sensitivity. He could feel everything more intensely, see for miles (plus a few new colors, which was weird), hear _everything—_ but Venom… Venom puts a filter over all that. It’s like living _in_ his Spideysuit.

This is the first day in a long time in which he hasn’t had a headache and _man,_ is it beautiful.

Tony snapped his fingers in Peter’s face impatiently. “You there, Space Man? I’m losing you. Ground control to Major Tom.”

“Oh, uh, yeah! I feel great!” Peter grinned, striking a proud pose. “I told you, I just got over myself.”

Tony gave him a look. The one that usually expresses several types of disappointment and left Peter feeling a little crummy for his dishonesty.

But with Venom…

“What, you don’t believe me?” Peter flashed him a look back, smug and self-assured and seeping with all things _Venom._ He scoffed, turning back to the chemical formula he had been fiddling with for the last twenty minutes. “Whatever, Stark. I don’t need your approval.”

“You’re going to speak to me like that in my house?” Tony asked, except the flat, terse tone of his voice made it clear it wasn’t a question. He turned away from his suit now, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows furrowed in a way that made him look irritated and exhausted all in one go.

For a moment Peter felt concerned. Mollified. Embarrassed, even. What had gotten into him?

But as quickly as it came it was gone, and annoyance surged through his veins. He slammed a beaker down, barely taking notice as it sloshed all over his hand. 

“You’re damn right I am,” Peter nearly hissed through clenched teeth.

Tony stared at him for a moment, lips pressed in a thin line. Peter wasn’t sure what he would do, but he could feel Venom plucking at the harp strings of his mind, shifting his body slightly until he was in a defensive position.

Part of him knew Mr. Stark wouldn’t hurt him, but still.

“Okay,” Tony said after a moment of silence. “I’m not your father. Do what you want.”

“What?” Peter couldn’t hide his surprise— even Venom stirred, suddenly interested in the conversation.

“I’m not your father.” Tony shrugged, a sad smile on his lips. And then his face darkened, and he said, “But Peter, you can do what you want at home.”

Peter… didn’t know what to do. There was such an air of finality about him, a tone that brooked no argument, that Peter felt a wave of _red_ crash over him— Venom relished in that feeling, seizing control and swirling about his mind in a great big storm.

“Fine,” Peter snarled. “I didn’t need you anyway.”

Thunder rolled. 

“Fine,” Tony responded, posture far too calm for the bite in his voice. “You know where the door is.”

Lightning struck.

The door slammed before Peter even knew he was out of it, and he stared into a long, empty hallway that stared back.

_**Be still,**_ Venom assured. Peter felt a phantom hand on his shoulder. _**All will be right soon.**_

Peter listened carefully. He felt something lodged itself in his throat. He felt hot tears pool in the curves of his lips.

For once since he got him, Peter didn’t believe a word Venom said.  
——  
Peter stood around his destroyed room, seething with rage. So Tony was gonna kick him out, huh? Like _he_ was in the wrong?

Peter wanted to scream, so he did. He let out a vicious roar, slamming his fists into anything unfortunate enough to be nearby. He picked up his dresser and smashed it by his feet, clenching his fingers to his palm hard enough to bleed. This wasn’t fucking fair. It wasn’t his fucking _fault._

There was _nothing_ wrong with Venom.

“Tony always thinks he knows sh **it,”** Peter growled, stalking about the splintered and broken remains of his room. “Well this time he’s fuckin’ wrong.” His voice went deep, guttural, into one much unlike his own. It was different. It was a good different.

Venom seemed pleased, in fact.

_**Yess,**_ he hissed, curling sweetly like smoke in his mind’s eye. Give me your anger. And I will make you better.

“Better?” Peter half-snarled, half-croaked. His throat felt shredded.

**_Better,_** was all Venom said, and Peter couldn’t see him anymore.

He… he should. He should just give in. Everything felt too much. Red bled at the edges of his vision, the lights (the ones he had destroyed, which were now sparking pathetically on his ceiling) burned his eyes, and he wanted to plant his fist into the wall until it collapsed.

Peter let out a shaky breath. “Okay,” he whispered, and Venom laughed.  
——  
Somehow he ended back at Stark Tower. Peter doesn’t remember how he got there or when, but he was wearing his suit, and its spider legs were out. Huh.

Tony was here too. He looked angry.

“Peter, what the hell do you think you’re doing!”

The wind whipped at his hair, pulled at his clothes, and even through the suit Peter could feel the chill. He was so confused. How did he get here?

“Mr. Stark?” Peter took a step towards him, an incredible feeling of dread pooling over him like thick ink. “Mr. Stark, you should go inside. You’ll get cold.”

And Tony gave him such a look, one indecipherable but clear as day, one so confused and relieved and angry and storming full of rage that Peter felt his heart squeeze in his chest, felt tears forming to his eyes.

He couldn’t take it anymore. “Mr. Stark, I—“ A tear ran down his face and he palmed it through the suit, too afraid and ashamed to take it off. “I don’t feel so good,” he sobbed, dropping to his knees. “I don’t— I’m scared. I don’t know what’s going on.”

He felt vulnerable. He felt afraid.

Peter hugged his arms to his chest and cried. His stomach churned, head pounded as he pressed it desperately to the sidewalk. He ripped off his mask, curling into a ball. “Mr. Stark!” He cried, voice pitching up with hysteria. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Peter felt a lot of things then, but Venom’s presence was not one of them. It left him feeling empty.

A hand came to rest on his back, trembling. “Peter— it’s— it’s okay, it wasn’t you.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t you, buddy— We got this off of you, alright? There was this thing… just leeching off you and we got it off, okay? It wasn’t you, Peter. Look at me. It wasn’t you.”

Peter couldn’t force himself off the ground, no matter how much Tony tugged at him. It felt different and wrong to be alone. It felt as if he had done something terrible and that he wouldn’t ever know what.

“I’m sorry for yelling, Peter.” Tony had stopped trying to pull him up, instead awkwardly patting at his hair. “You just—“ he sighed, running his fingers through Peter’s hair. “you showed up here and it’s like you wasn’t even yourself. You—“ Peter could hear Tony swallow. “you looked like a monster, kid. There was this black stuff all over you,” he tapped a jar on the ground by his head, and Peter looked up to see this writhing black mass splitting off into dozens of webs around the glass. “and it took a while, but I figured out how to get it off.”

Peter looked up and Tony grimaced a little. “You got some uh, burns, but they’re healing.”

“You burned me?” Peter squeaked.

“Well, I tried my best not to.” Tony smiled, but it small. His voice dropped low, a sad look in his eyes. “That thing was really stuck on you, kiddo. What happened to you?”

“I— they made me feel strong, Mr. Stark. Like I could do stuff—and— and be brave. I liked it. I liked him, Mr. Stark. He was nice to me and I stood up to people. To—to Flash, and… it felt nice. They felt nice. But I don’t— I don’t remember anything, h—how I got here or what I was doing before— I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark. I just didn’t want to be scared.”

Tony didn’t know what to do. It struck him, suddenly, that this was a child in his arms, and no matter how many jokes he cracked or references he made, he was small and just a kid. And he did this… so he wouldn’t be scared. Because this thing helped him be brave.

Tony felt angry. Angry for his child and for the things he felt he had to do. It wouldn’t do him any good to get mad again, so he hugged Peter close and rubbed circles in his back, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder. “You were covered in the thing when you got here. When I took you out, you were completely out of it. FRIDAY said you had experienced some type of sensory overload and your brain couldn’t handle it. Conked right out and that thing drove you all the way here. Called itself Venom? Does that ring any bells?”

Peter sighed weakly. “I don’t really wanna talk about it right now, Mr. Stark. But… yeah. It was living in me, it was part of me. I… I just wanna take a nap. I wanna go home.”

Tony hoisted Peter up with a groan, a dull ache in his back. “Right, well. You can’t go home. We’ve gotta keep an eye on you for now. But I’ve got the silkiest sheets in the world waiting just for you, kiddo. C’mon.”

Finally Peter felt right enough to smile. “Thanks, Mr. Stark. You’re the best.”

“That’s Tony, Pete. And don’t you forget it.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Winter, separate entities, same body. Homestuck reference.

With liberation from Hydra comes great, spotty holes in his memory. Bucky’s likened it to Swiss cheese— Winter doesn’t say anything at all about it, but the point stands that Bucky can’t remember anything Winter doesn’t and vice versa. And Winter didn’t know anything except how to be a weapon from start to end anyway, so now Bucky’s gotta walk around with Winter always battle-ready in the back of skull wondering just when this or that happened.

Nobody bothered to update him on anything like how people do things now or who the president is (it wasn’t considered vital information at the time) but with his uh, “falling out” with SHIELD and the breaking of the Avengers nothing is vital information anymore. Bucky’s been making more of an effort to catch up than Stevey has ‘cuz not knowing anything at all makes him anxious.

Another side effect of having your brain melted and stitched back together again is forgettin’ the regular, daily things. Like brushing your teeth or your hair. Bucky doesn’t quite remember what he smelled like but he was sure it was pretty piss poor. And even though his sense of smell is heightened as fuck these days, it’s still easy to get lost in this or that and just plain forget.

Bucky did some research and started tying things to his fingers. As reminders, y’know? ‘Course it only works if he remembers what they mean, but they’re his little forget-me-nots, and even Winter figures they’re better than nothin.

 _It’s only because I’m tired of smelling like a dumpster when you’re in charge,_ he scoffs on the right side of Bucky’s skull. He scratches his ear.

“Yeah, well, deal with it, buster. I don’t see you making any great attempts to keep me clean and fed.”

God, Bucky can feel the guy roll his eyes. “I don’t like interacting with the other inhabitants of the household.” A pause, and then, “Minus Stark and the child.”

Bucky rolled his own eyes and focused his attention back on his strings. Red. Red means something. Red… it’s Winter’s favorite color. But it’s on his right hand, and Winter chose the left for the string system, which means Bucky put it there. For what he can’t… remember.

“Any ideas, Winter?” He slumps back into his chair, rubbing his eyes. Staring so intently at his hands hurts after a while. Maybe he should invest in glasses.

Winter shrugs. With a sigh, Bucky resigns himself to another memoryless day, and wanders in the direction of the kitchen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Peter, dying, coming back to life. “Please Mr Stark I don’t wanna go”

Peter awoke with a start, heart pounding, sticky with sweat. He felt terrible. He felt like he had been hit by a bus.

He felt like he had been ripped apart on the molecular level, only to be stitched together real time, except he couldn’t be sewed up fast enough. Like every cell in his body was being rearranged and broken apart into something else as he watched.

Like... like…

Peter would have sobbed as the realization dawned on him if he wasn’t already crying. His head hurt. The world was too bright. Dust from the planet coated his hands and his face and Peter had to wonder how much of that was him.

He didn’t recognize where he was. He had died _(died)(m_ on a rock of some sort, back where they were fighting Thanos. There was debris out in the distance but there was debris kind of everywhere. A red sea of sand, only this one wouldn’t part for him.

The urge to curl in on himself was strong. He died before Mr. Stark, unless Mr. Stark didn’t die at all in which case he needs to find out where he is and why he hasn’t found him yet unless Peter’s alone on this planet, he’s really alone, he’s the only one who survived, or—or came back, whatever— but he needs to find Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark, Mr. _Stark—_

Peter doesn’t realize he’s screaming and crying. Not until hands plant themselves on his shoulders and shake him only a little rougher than he’d like, followed by an alarmed voice going “Kid! Kid, stop screaming!”

“I— what?” He’s confused. His tears don’t stop.

“You’re gonna blow my damn eardrums out.”

Peter takes his head out of his hands (he doesn’t remember putting it there) and blinks blearily up at whoever is yelling at him, squashing down his fear and anxiety. “I— I am?”

“Yes,” the man responds rather seriously, a haggard expression on his bearded face. He looks tired, though Peter supposes dying can do that to you.

He recognizes him. Well, he doesn’t remember his name, but they were just fighting together and he’s the one who…

“Why did you do that?” Peter demands suddenly. He feels angry. This guy couldn’t keep it under control for two seconds and he and Mr. Stark were so close to getting the glove off! “I know your wife or girlfriend or whatever died but we had almost had the glove off! I don’t think that was the greatest time to antagonize the biggest threat to the universe, dude!”

And the man narrows his eyes, shifting forward before opening his mouth with a certain sort of conviction. But it blows out of him as easily as a breeze, shoulders slumping and eyes looking tired for all the world. “I know,” he says quietly. Peter feels a pang of sympathy. He decides not to press it further.

“Do you know where—“ Peter shifts uneasily, suddenly feeling exposed. “where are your... friends?”

“Mr. Stark?” He tries, hope flickering in his chest.

He shakes his head.

“Oh. Okay,” is all Peter can think to say, head swimming. “Okay.”

The man looks at him critically, eyeing him up and down before extending his hand. “My name is Peter. Peter Quill.”

Despite it all, Peter brightens. “My name is Peter too!”

A smile forms at the edge of Quill’s lips. “Really? I would have thought you were Spiderboy or something.”

“Spider- _man,”_ Peter corrects, suddenly remembering to shake the proffered hand.

Quill nods knowingly, smile twitching a little higher. “Right, right. Well, we should probably take you home... once we find the other Guardians.” He begins to walk off, motioning for Peter to follow.

He feels stuck there for a minute, stuck in time, stuck in the sand, before he startles and rushes off after him. “I’m sure Mr. Stark will find us.”

Even as he says this, something dark squirms uneasily in his chest. It makes it feel tight, tighter still, squeezed like a tube of toothpaste around his suit and his prickling skin. “He will,” he repeats, and Quill looks at him uneasily. His expression is dark over it all.

“You okay, kiddo?” He asks, slowing his brisk pace. “I mean, you were screaming when I found you.”

Quill hums, looking unsure. “...alright then. Follow me.”

He does.

It feels weird, he thinks. To know you didn’t exist for a period of time. There’s a blank spot in his memory that lasts an instant and an eternity, right up until he... “Passed away.”

Mr. Stark’s face, stricken and horrified, holding him with a care he hadn’t known before.

The pain from feeling his legs and his arms turn to dust.

How he looked down at himself, less than a torso, the suffocating feeling of his lungs just simply no longer existing, the disappearance of his veins and his blood and his spine. He felt it all try to regenerate and die. He remembers his head tilting to the side. And then the stretch of black that feels just like going to sleep.

Peter knows people don’t remember sleeping, but there’s almost always something to fill the gaps of unconsciousness. And even if there isn’t it doesn’t feel weird because he knows he was asleep.

Here, there’s nothing. He suspects his mind can only process not existing as blackness because it’s the purest black he’s even seen, even inside his head. It’s like staring at a great big incorporeal screen, except he is himself and the screen and nothing at all. It gives him a headache to think about, so he doesn’t.

Quill stops abruptly, and the hairs on Peter’s neck tingle. It’s not Spidey-sense, he’s not in danger... it’s just.. a sense of dread. Like something bad is happening but he doesn’t know what, just that it’s bad for him too. Like watching your parents fight as a child without understanding what they’re fighting about.

“There’s nothing here,” Quill bites out. “we can’t leave.”

“W—What?” Peter stutters, heart dropping to his feet.

“We can’t fucking leave,” he hisses, whipping around on his heels. “the ships. They’re gone. And none of us— none of us could possibly engineer anything from these wrecks— I, uh— Rocket probably could but he’s... out with Pirate Angel—“

“What—“

“and if I can’t find my team we can’t do anythiing in the first place, so I guess— I— I think we’ll just have to sit here,” Quill finishes, going from increasingly agitated to visibly exhausted. He sits down on a rock, pressing his head in his hand. “We’ll have to wait. Someone will have to come for us.”

“Mr. Stark will,” Peter says weakly, sickly, feeling something curl up in his throat.

The look Quill gives him is enough to spring tears to his eyes again.

“Well, kid...” He shakes his head. “for our sakes, let’s hope he does.”


End file.
